Page 109 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

“And now?”

“Oh, yes.”He grinned, eyes glinting.“Strings.Lush, cinematic strings.Big, sweeping violins like something out of a Tarkovsky film.”

I looked away and swiped at a tear before it had the chance to fall.Then I remembered something.

“Anton said he was Ukrainian.But… he’s your son?”

Petyr nodded.“Not by blood.But I’m the only father he’s ever known.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky bar top.The lights caught in his silver-streaked hair.

“Right after the police arrested us, after we’d been beaten bloody, Vera seduced Pavel.You remember him?Lived with us?Big hands, bad poetry?”

I snorted.“Big and stupid.I think he actually believed all that Communist bullshit.”

“Exactly.Vera carried on an affair with him until she was sure she was pregnant.Then she dropped him cold.She said it was the only way to protect me.Said she never wanted me to be in danger again, and that having a child would be the perfect shield.”

I nodded slowly.That sounded like Vera.Calculated, brave, and loyal to a fault.

“When she made the announcement, oh my God, was it awkward in our apartment.Nina, Pavel’s wife, hadn’t a clue about their little side project.And with the housing shortage, they couldn’t move out.We all had to live on top of each other in that tiny place.”

He took a sip of vodka, grimaced, and then continued.

“Then the USSR collapsed.Chaos, confusion.Both Vera and I lost our jobs.We ended up moving to Kiev, where things were...okay.Quiet.We lived happily enough, I suppose.Anton was a good kid.Smart.Thoughtful.”

I felt the question before I asked it, like a bruise I didn’t want to press.

“What about Vera?”

He set the glass down slowly.

“She’s gone,” he breathed.“Cancer.”

My stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded, eyes glistening again.“She was the best friend I’ve ever had.And I miss her so much, Dimi.Hey, what about your parents?I never spoke to your father again after you escaped.”

I sighed.“My father and mother both lived happily in St.Petersburg until they died.By then I could safely return to Russia, and I went to both of their funerals.My father refused to speak about what happened that final night, saying he was doing the best he could in a rotten situation.I searched for you while I was there, and now I know why I never found you.You were in Ukraine.I wish…”

The lights in the bar went out with a dramatic thunk, followed by a thunderous blast of pop music through the speakers.A strobe light flickered overhead.Then she appeared.Nova, decked out in rhinestones and blue feathers, strutted onto a small stage like a disco peacock.Lip-syncing like her rent depended on it.Which, come to think of it, it probably did.She kicked and twirled, and the crowd cheered like she was the second coming of Cher.

Petyr and I both winced.

“I don’t even know what song this is,” he muttered, leaning toward me.

“No idea,” I said.“But let’s get out of here.How can we talk with all this noise?”

He nodded quickly, grateful, and I flagged down the bartender to pay.I left a tip, too.Maybe I was feeling sentimental.Or maybe I just didn’t want Petyr thinking I was cheap.

We slipped out through the crowd, dodging wigs and waving arms, and stepped out into the quiet of Christopher Street.

It was night, but the city buzzed with its usual mix of sirens, laughter, and passing conversations.The summer air was thick and smelled like beer and hot concrete.I took a deep breath and reached for Petyr’s hand.

His fingers twitched in mine, and then he froze.

Petyr’s eyes darted around the street, quick and sharp like a cornered animal.Watching for uniforms.Listening for boots.

---